Current music:	"Satellite" - Guster
Entry tags:	lists, scribbled things, the word bitch

the keeper of the lists
A random assemblage of lists lurks in almost every notebook or journal I have. I lack the memory to remember what each of them means, although I sometimes snatch the thread of thought that lead me there. There's a fear inside of forgetting certain thoughts that have tamed the wild beast of my brain. This fear is almost as great as my urgency to do my Life's Work. Each year, I feel a little more restless and more on edge as I face another twelve months of labouring on projects that do build a foundation, but don't take me to the skies in the ways that writing and creating do.

My latest journal features hand-drawn pomegranates with scientific names on its cover, something that no one else has, at least not this way. Although I've spilled water on it and taken it with me everywhere, the pages are relatively empty. Already, there's a list. The list reads:

black birds on power lines
art nouveau
art deco
Cleopatra VII
flappers
dripping jet beads
feathered fascinators
Portobello in England
fleur de lis
Van Cleef and Arpels' clover
steampunk
Victoriana
headdresses
hand-carved cameos
Azteca
Mexicali embroidery
Marie Antoinette
mermaids
Anne Boleyn
tiered wedding cake dresses
bruised lace
Haitian café au lait skin
Creole curses
voodoo
cemetery angels
Margot Tenenbaum
antique lip balm tins
Depression Era glass
flaming hearts and dusty Catholicism
my antelope husband
guitars and amps
trees that look like bones

A few pages later, I see I've written, "They call us witches when we're too powerful to be defined or limited by their labels. Instead, they try to collect us like porcelain dolls or gather a fire beneath us at the stake. In death, they want to teach us about fire, thinking the fire will destroy those notions. They forget that we are the fire and that our wombs are doorways to history." I wrote it after being called a bitch by someone, simply because I called a spade a spade. When I was younger, I held my tongue, being so afraid of the bitch/witch/slut moniker. Now, I invite it. I welcome it. Being called one of those names means someone is scared enough of me to resort to cliché, and I can never be clichéd in my reaction.

Being thirty-something means I can do little old lady things like keep lists and instigate others with my truth. I rather like it.

Artemis of the Avenues